Across the Ages
by Diaphanous
Summary: Six men, six moments, and one thousand years of history between them.


**Across the Ages**

Drabbles

_Disclaimer: I don't own these lovely men of the AC universe. Would you like some pocket lint instead?_

_AN: wow, I can't believe I've never posted these here... This was written before I ever played AC: Brotherhood and Revelations  
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000/000

Snow was falling from the heavens beyond the windows of the new hideout. Desmond stared out with a sullen expression, pressing his hand against the cold glass. It had been months since his escape from Abstergo with Lucy. And during those months, he continued to see ghosts from the past haunting his waking steps. Sometimes people called out in Classical Arabic or Frankish or even Medieval English, shouting and laughing. Other times it would be Renaissance Italian ringing in his ears. The clamoring vibrated in his mind. Desmond could even smell the scent of spices from the marketplaces in Damascus and Jerusalem, the stench of the canals of Venice, and the sweet aroma of the harvest in the fields of Tuscany. When he ate dinner, he didn't taste the microwave meals but instead the spiced kabobs provided at the mess hall in Masyaf or the tomato and basil flavored gnocchi served at the Auditore villa.

Desmond felt like he was going insane.

The former bartender backed away from the window slowly, his hand lifting off of the glass with reluctance. He turned and walked away. He headed to the Animus room for his next session. And all around him ghostly figures of people long dead glided up and down the hall.

000/000

The hum of the Animus filled the room. The group of four was working on various tasks while Rebecca herself was improving the Animus' programming codes. The only British member of the group was tapping away at his laptop with a distracted air about him. Shaun was worried. Usually this was normal for him; he tended to worry about a lot of things. But for once the object of his worry wasn't a usual one. The Brit frowned down at his translation of a text that was important to their research. But against his will, Shaun kept looking up to glance at the only other man in their group. He could see the exhaustion and stress on the younger man's face. Crinkles not related to smiling were gathered at the corners of his eyes and the lines bracketing the ends of his lips were deepening with each passing day. And no matter how much he ragged on Desmond, the strawberry-blond was not immune to the signs of strain on the former bartender. He knew that the Bleeding Effect was taking a turn for the worst.

Shaun wanted to help but he didn't know how.

The archivist forced himself to turn away when Desmond muttered in Italian under his breath. He stared blindly at his screen, his fingers hovering over his keyboard. His shoulders were hunched up to his ears as the other man switched to Arabic in his murmurings. There was nothing that he could do...

000/000

The sweltering heat of Acre blurred the air in a humid haze. There was no relief to be had from the sea breeze. Sweat dripped down from Altaïr's temples as he crouched on the rooftop. His gold eagle eyes stared down at the crowds, hoping to catch a glimpse of his prey. His gaze sharpened when his target came into sight. On swift and silent feet, he flew across the rooftops in pursuit from above. He was a blur of white against the sand colored roofs. When the prey entered a narrow alley, Altaïr dropped down onto the ground, landing on his feet with a quiet thump that could not be heard over the shouts of merchants in the main street just beyond the alley. The clink of metal was all the warning the man he was targeting got before he died with a blade sinking into the base of his skull.

Altaïr smoothly stepped away as the corpse fell to the ground.

The blade slid back into its bracer and the assassin gracefully climbed up the side of the building that made part of the alleyway. Just as he reached the roof, a person screamed from below him. Obviously someone had already stumbled across the body he had left behind. But no expression of triumph crossed his face. Instead Altaïr simply hopped on to the next roof.

000/000

The tea was pleasantly hot against his tongue. The scent of jasmine wafted up from the cup and tickled his nose. Malik sighed softly and set down his beverage to pick up his quill. Dipping the tip into the inkwell, the one-armed rafiq carefully wrote in his log book. Elegantly written Arabic scrolled across the parchment beneath his quill. The scuff of boot soles and soft rustle of fabric made him look up and lift the ink stained quill tip from his writing to set it back down on the counter. He frowned when one of the Novices assigned to him entered the main room of the Bureau, looking a little worse for wear.

Malik sighed and bent down to dig out cleaning cloths, bandages and healing ointments.

The rafiq gestured for the Novice to sit. He then went off for a bowl of clean water. Malik muttered instructions to the younger male about the ointment as he deftly cleaned him up. As the leader of the Bureau in Jerusalem, it was his job to teach the younger assassins and to aid all. But there were times when he wished he still had his arm and not just instruct but do.

000/000

Quiet curses filled the solemn morning air. Crimson blood leaked out from between fingers held tight against the deep wound in his side. Ezio leaned against the brick wall of the small alley he had landed in from the rooftops he had escaped across, panting. He bowed his hooded head and grit his teeth. He hated the fact that a single second of inattention had allowed some upstart to sneak up on him for a lucky blow. The Florentine was currently paying for it in spades despite the fact that he had killed all of the guards he had been engaged with in battle. He huffed out a deep breath and pushed himself away from the wall to continue his trek to Leonardo's workshop.

Ezio could not wait to get himself cleaned up and bandaged by his artist friend.

The back alleys of Venice were the only option at the moment. Even then the Assassino stuck to the shadows. Already people were walking about and merchants were opening shop. Finally, with much relief, the usually smooth and suave Italian arrived at the artist's workshop. Ezio pounded at the door and smiled in gratitude when it opened to the familiar face of his friend.

000/000

Parchment and canvases were scattered about the room. A trunk filled with ink sketches was being dug through. Leonardo Da Vinci was on a quest. The blond artist frowned as he stuck his head and whole torso into the deep trunk, flinging out the sketches that were not what he was looking for. He held up one, squinted at it, and tossed it out with the rest of its brethren onto the floor. His blue eyes lit up in triumph when he finally found the sketch of his assassin friend in repose. Kneeling upright again, Leonardo examined the drawing of the man who had fallen asleep during a decryption of a Codex page. The tilt of the younger man's head and the curve of his cheek and neck were pleasing to the artist's eye.

Leonardo stood up and made his way over to a pile of blank canvases.

A small canvas was plucked from the pile and the blond set it on a stand by a table. He began to arrange his paints and brushes with one hand while he dug out a piece of charcoal with the other from a box. He was looking forward to finally painting his friend. He would give it as a gift to Ezio to put in his villa. With a smile, he began.

000/000

**END**


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